


Eau Sauvage

by la_faerie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Frottage, M/M, confused Lirry dickslapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Liam himself is moving before he realizes that he’s doing it. He has no strategy, and nothing in particular to say. He’s running on pure instinct, pure stupidity, pure anger over the fact that Harry is so difficult for him whereas he seems to be delightfully easy for everyone else.</i>
</p><p>or, Liam and Harry are endlessly confused by each other, until they work out a way to be slightly less confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eau Sauvage

**Author's Note:**

> 'Eau Sauvage' is the name of a men's fragrance by Dior that I had in mind while writing.
> 
> I did feel wary about including Danielle in this, especially since it's not an AU. However, it's a small role, and I think it helped serve the story. Obviously this entire thing is ridiculously, hilariously untrue.
> 
> I have to thank the usual suspects: thank you to [Any](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdf/pseuds/cmdf), especially for helping me get started with this. And thank you, [Lindsay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/pseuds/icecreamsocialist) for helping me feel as though this was finished.

Liam thinks he deserves a little bit of credit. He does know how to read, after all. He reads occasional article snippets from The Guardian, he reads social cues, and, most of all, he reads music. And, when push comes to shove, he can untangle a narrative. At least he used to think so. 

Lately, it always happens when he least expects it. Maybe he should expect it to happen on stage, considering what Louis, Zayn, and Niall all get up to. But then, Harry has always been a different story. 

Harry’s standing in front of him now, watching as tears sting at his eyes from the surprise and the sheer physical pain. Liam doesn’t particularly want to cry on stage. But Harry has just punched him right in the balls—a real smack too, it’s not a joke. Harry isn’t smiling. It isn’t funny, and Liam can’t laugh the way he can when Louis tweaks one of his nipples or pours a whole bottle of water out over his head. 

Harry’s eyes look dark under the blinding stage lights, his face impassive. He turns toward the crowd, and it’s that same face that makes the fans go wild. It’s what they’ve paid to see, not the singing, not really. This mob has come to gawk at all of them, but especially Harry. Harry with the hair. Harry with those eyes. Liam feels wild too, like maybe he wants to scream just like the fans, because that dark look in Harry’s eyes is getting under his skin and making him itch like a rash. 

Liam knows it’s his cue to open the next song. He isn’t going to miss it because this is the part he understands, the part he can read. He walks with Harry, following him, singing right into his face. It’s the only way he can think to communicate, the only way he can get Harry to really look at him. Harry does look back, finally. The stage lights should help Liam, they should illuminate Harry, draw him more into focus. But whatever is contained in that dark look is written in a language that Liam can’t translate. 

Liam begins to think that Harry isn’t a story at all. He’s a riddle.

+

Once, Liam and Zayn had conspired to rip Harry’s button-down shirt open during one of Harry’s solos. They had pulled the prank off, to great hilarity, because Harry truly didn’t expect it. He had stumbled, and tried to cover himself up while still singing, and the rest of them had shrieked with laughter. Harry had turned around all frustrated and dark-eyed, but something shifted when he realized that Zayn was involved. Zayn was laughing so hard that his nose was scrunched up, and it made the look in Harry’s eye soften until he joined in the laughter, too.

The thing is, Zayn pulls shit like that all the time. He grabs Louis’ arse, or strokes a hand across Niall’s chest on the lookout for his nipples. They always giggle about it, and then Niall and Zayn go out for fish and chips, or Louis and Zayn curl up to watch The Avengers together.

Liam and Harry don’t go out to eat, just the two of them. And they might happen to fall asleep near each other on the sofa, but they don’t make plans to specifically watch a movie together, or flip through comic books, or just laze around. It just isn’t what they do. It isn’t that there’s nothing between them. Liam and Harry don’t smack each other’s arses or stroke down each other’s chests. They always, always go for each other’s dicks, like some kind of unspoken rule. Liam thinks, surely that qualifies as a type of intimate relationship, even if it is a very odd one. 

And Liam knows that—even though he can’t read the look Harry sometimes gives him—it must mean something. Besides, it’s not as though he feels nothing for Harry. The problem is, he feels everything, all kinds of emotions, in a desperately fierce way. Harry only needs to be in his peripheral vision for him to feel it, his skin prickling with the force of it, so that, somehow, smacking Harry in the balls feels like a perfectly satisfying outlet. 

Liam gets together with Dani as often as their schedules allow, and it’s supposed to be the most intimate kind of relationship, but it doesn’t always feel that way. There are moments when Liam is filled more with frustration than with any other emotion. He doesn’t like the idea of having to pencil down a time in his diary to see his own girlfriend, but it’s necessary sometimes. And even when they are with each other, fingertips skating over skin, Liam feels that same crazed sensation that he feels around Harry, like he’s become too big for his own body. It’s just so hectic and pressured, always trying to make the most of the little time spent together. Sometimes, with Dani, it doesn’t feel very intimate at all.

+

The thing is, sometimes Harry is great. 

Liam has learned a lot from working in a group: how to be patient, how to trust others, how not to drown in the loneliness of pure ambition. But old habits have a way of lingering and clawing their way out into the open air to remind everyone what kind of person you used to be. So, Liam has learned a lot, but there are still times during rehearsals when he can’t help himself, when he lets his old unquenchable drive take over.

“Zayn!” he shouts in an exasperated kind of growl. “We’ve run through this a hundred times, and you’re still coming in a beat too late. The rest of us can’t do anything if you’re not doing your job!” 

It’s probably a poor choice of words, because it really isn’t his job to be talking to any of the lads like this. He should leave it to their vocal coach or some other real adult. And he definitely shouldn’t be yelling, not at Zayn of all people. As a general rule, he thinks that no one should ever yell at Zayn. He’ll feel terrible about this in a few minutes, but, right now, he’s beyond rehearsal, he’s beyond the music. All Liam can hear is a rushing in his ears, all he can feel is the stark need to tell Zayn that he’s _wrong_.

Louis throws him a dangerous look that he would be able to decipher if he could see anything at all right now. Then Louis curls his hand briefly around Zayn’s elbow before turning on his heel and stomping out of the room, shouting over his shoulder about needing some air.

Zayn just stares at Liam, looking exhausted to the bone. “I’m sorry, man. We’re only rehearsing though. This is just rehearsal, remember?” The _so chill the fuck out_ is understood.

Liam turns away from Zayn to see Niall scurrying after Louis, and his tone must have been spectacularly bad if even Niall is avoiding him. Harry isn’t though. He isn’t storming off. Harry is facing him. He doesn’t look like he’s asleep on his feet. He doesn’t look angry. He just looks like Harry.

The two of them don’t do grand gestures with each other, only simple ones. Harry goes for the simplest of all this time: he offers Liam a smile. Suddenly Liam is able to see beyond himself again. He can see that one side of Harry’s mouth is turned up a little bit more than the other, making his face endearingly lopsided, and that his green eyes have gone soft like summertime. Harry holds Liam’s gaze and gives a little shake of his head, like he saw everything that just happened, and he’s decided that none of it matters. 

Liam feels himself let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding.

+

Louis is a proper story with intrigue, and plot twists, and everything. Mostly the twists he’s given to Liam’s nipples. And the lovebites he’s sucked into Liam’s neck. Louis always seemed so bizarre to Liam at first, his mouth always hot, his teeth grazing Liam’s skin, and then leaving Liam suddenly cold, as he would step back to observe his handiwork.

It had taken Liam ages to work it out. It was like turning the page to an enthralling new chapter when, one day, as he observed Louis’ manic energy and eager movements, he realized something. It was simply this: that Louis didn’t like for him to reach a hand up to cover the freshly blooming bruises on his neck, that he didn’t want Liam to hunch his shoulders and curl in on himself in defense.

Liam didn’t bite back, not that first time. But he did reach a hand out for one of Louis’ nipples to give him a taste of his own medicine. Louis’ eyes sparked when he saw the movement—outward not inward—and it was like an electric current, propelling Liam forward for more. He brought up his other arm, and landed a punch right in Louis’ chest.

“Mother of fucking god, ouch!” Louis shrieked. “You’re acting like a proper twat, and that hurt!” He sounded winded, but also more excited than Liam could remember ever hearing.

And so Liam now understands that Louis is a very simple story, really. He touches, and pokes, and prods at Liam because he craves conversation. The thing he had wanted all along was a response.

 

Liam learns that this is not the case with Harry.

He figures it’s time that Harry take a little pain and public humiliation of his own. He waits until nearly the very end of the show one night. During Harry’s solo in What Makes You Beautiful, he creeps closer and closer to Harry from behind, until he can rest his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Liam looks at Harry’s profile as he sings, can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He can smell Harry too, a cologne mingling with the sweat—something woodsy, and much more grown-up than boyish—but he can’t think about that right now. 

Liam allows a smile to curl across his lips as he digs his chin into Harry’s shoulder and reaches around front, his own hand curled into a fist, to hit Harry squarely in the dick. It’s a proper shot, and Liam feels Harry crumple in on himself from the force. He moves away to take in his handiwork, can hear Louis cackling behind him. Liam wants to smile, wants to have a moment of triumph, or a moment of fun, at the very least. He wants to laugh, but it dies in his throat. 

Liam actually chokes on his own laugh, on his own little prank, as he sees Harry straighten up and look at him with those eyes, so dark under the stage lights. Harry definitely isn’t laughing. He simply adjusts his trousers a little bit, and then moves toward the right side of the stage, leaving Liam alone, center-stage, and feeling like the most massive dickhead in the building.

He still hasn’t unravelled Harry, but at least Liam knows one thing now: that he isn’t asking to play. And that he isn’t necessarily being malevolent either. What Harry does to Liam, it’s something else. It’s violence for the sake of it. Harry watches as the action unfolds, as it hits Liam, like an experiment. Having observed Liam’s reaction (pain, usually) he walks away, finished with the entire process. It takes Liam some time to figure out how he feels about returning the favor.

+

Liam can’t remember if it’s someone from the documentary crew, or one of the lads (Louis, most likely) who first suggests the idea of pulling someone’s trousers down on stage for the film. Regardless, Liam somehow finds himself saying, “Yeah, what if I do it? I could pants Harry.” 

Harry swivels around to look at him, alert and considering, while Louis falls all over himself screeching, “Yes, you do it, Payner! Brilliant!”

“Alright,” the word pours out of Harry’s mouth molasses-slow. “For the film, I suppose.”

“It would be such a laugh,” Liam has no idea why he’s fixated on this, but now he’s determined to do it. “Don’t you think? Please Harry, just for the film?”

“I said _alright_ ,” Harry repeats the word, and it sounds waspish this time.

Zayn raises an eyebrow at this, knowing how uncommon it is for Harry to be sharp with anyone, but Liam shrugs it off, used to the atypical way Harry interacts with him.

Later, when Liam crowds in behind Harry on stage, he notices that Harry must have bathed himself in that same woodsy-smelling cologne, it’s everywhere. The cologne speaks of something else, too. It’s not just trees and wood, there’s a prickling there, something sharp that lives and breathes. Liam doesn’t have time to describe it right now. He’s worried about Harry’s absurdly tight black skinny jeans, and the fact that he might accidentally pull his briefs down along with them. The audience probably wouldn’t mind, but they’re not making _that_ type of film.

Liam grips Harry’s trousers and pulls them down in one swift motion. Since Harry knows it’s coming, he’s prepared enough to save his briefs, and his dignity, and to pull his trousers back up reasonably quickly. The entire audience erupts with shrieks of disbelief and delight, and next to Liam, Louis is practically crowing with laughter. Harry, however, doesn’t laugh. Liam had known that he wouldn’t, right from the minute he suggested it. He knows Harry’s response—or non-response—is because of him, specifically. 

Maybe Liam suggested the idea in the first place because he thought he could anticipate Harry’s reaction—that dark look in his eyes—but he wanted confirmation of it. He needed to know whether or not that look is reserved for him. Harry stares at Liam, and, as Liam returns his gaze, he can’t help the shiver teasing at the base of his spine. He gives Harry a little smirk as he thinks, _yes_ , that look is just for him.

+

The tour still hasn’t left England when Liam meets up with Dani in person because they owe it to each other to do it face-to-face. They know what’s coming, what’s been brewing in the silences, stretching between them for weeks now. She doesn’t look sad. Her shoulders are set, and her eyes darkly determined. 

When she speaks her voice sounds resigned. “Our lives just don’t fit together, Liam. It’s not that I don’t like you, or love you, even. We just don’t _fit_.”

He doesn’t fight it, letting her words wash over him, absorbing the chilling fact that, sometimes, and through no fault of their own, two people just can’t manage to be together. He hands over a small bag of her things—pajamas, shampoo, a bottle of perfume—then he goes home alone to pack his own bag for Europe.

Somehow Dani and Harry become strangely linked in Liam’s mind. Or maybe it isn’t strange at all, maybe it makes sense, as the two people he’s failed to read. Dani hadn’t been mean or vindictive in the end, in the same way that Harry doesn’t have any feelings of ill-will towards him, even if his actions might suggest otherwise. Liam tries not to think that Harry is just being an asshole, because he isn’t one, not really. He’s seen Harry with Niall, all rosy cheeks and giggling. And he’s seen Harry with Zayn, all whispers and caresses. But then, maybe that’s just Niall and Zayn themselves, it’s what they can’t help but bring out in others. 

He remembers meeting Niall, how he came bounding up to Liam, his laugh preceding him, serving as an introduction. Then Niall had swallowed Liam in a hug that had taken him so much by surprise, that he couldn’t help melting into it. And then there’s Zayn, who is sometimes ill at ease with others, but had fallen into Liam immediately—literally fallen asleep in Liam’s lap—and never quite disentangled himself. Liam hopes that he never does.

Liam can’t ignore what Harry and Louis bring out in each other, it would be impossible to do so. They used to be so many things to each other, but it had snowballed out of everyone’s control, until Louis had arrived at the studio one day with a storm raging in his eyes and said, “Eleanor’s upset,” and what he meant was _when Eleanor’s upset, I’m upset_. So now Harry and Louis are something else to each other, something that takes up less space.

Liam thinks of Dani’s last words to him. He thinks of that unsettling opaque quality in Harry’s eyes when they look at each other. Liam wonders sometimes, when he’s drifting over the edge of consciousness towards sleep, if his steadily growing relationship with Louis affects his relationship with Harry. And in those truly scary moments, when he allows himself to be completely honest, Liam wonders what it says about him, that he’s the only one to bring out that specifically violent side of Harry. 

He tells the lads about the break-up, but insists he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He laughs along with everyone while watching mindless films and telling jokes, just like usual, but, when Liam is alone now, he finds that he doesn’t much like to look in mirrors anymore. He isn’t at all sure about what his reflection has to offer, hair spiked up in his pseudo fauxhawk, his eyes appearing stark and hollow against his face. The tour bus rolls through Europe, and, every night, Liam climbs into his bunk, draws the curtain, and turns to face the wall.

+

Liam wanders into the locker room at the arena, having just finished his work out, and finds that the others are nowhere to be seen, not even Josh. He figures he can take his time with a shower, even though it’s stupid because he’ll have to take _another_ shower post-show tonight. But Liam can’t let go of his time at the gym. It’s the only thing that offers him the paradox of a clear mind, and also sharp focus.

The sweat he worked up at the gym is just starting to cool and dry into a film on his skin. Liam roots around in his backpack for something to wear while killing time before the concert, when the sound of the door banging into the wall and someone cursing, interrupts him. One of the other lads making an appearance, finally, he thinks. Liam turns around to find himself face to face with Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry says, his gaze as impenetrable as ever. Liam can’t tell if Harry is happy to see him or not. “Still a ways to go before the show, thought for sure you’d be at the gym.”

“Nah, Paul warned me not to wear myself out, so,” Liam gives a shrug. “I’m trying.”

“You always do try, don’t you?” Harry comments.

“What do you mean?” Liam asks in a much sharper tone than he intends.

Harry appears to think for a moment, and when he answers, he speaks even more slowly than usual. “Just that, sometimes, I don’t give a shit about what’s happening or what other people think. Like, honestly cannot be bothered. You don’t seem to have many of those moments though. In fact, I wonder if you have any.”

Liam feels his whole body pull magnetically towards Harry, and he takes a step forward. He wonders how Harry’s gaze—so impossible to Liam—can be so perceptive. But he isn’t going to tell Harry about his own insightfulness, doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The two of them stare at each other in silence, and Liam thinks of other silences, silences that are now permanent, as he casts around for something to say. 

“Where are the others?” he asks, finally.

“Oh!” Harry gives a start, as though he’d momentarily forgotten that he and Liam are in a band with three other boys, that that’s the only reason they know each other. “They’re trying to build some kind of makeshift skateboarding ramp by the bus. Niall is supervising, which is a terrible plan, because he’ll only cheerlead instead of telling them if something is legitimately wrong. But they wouldn’t listen to me. Louis said I wasn’t allowed near the thing because I’m enough of a hazard on flat surfaces, and Paul agreed with him.”

“Tommo’s not exactly wrong.” Liam knows he can tease a little. The two of them pry at each other, it’s allowed.

“Well, I walked away from it, didn’t I?” Harry replies, signalling that that’s as far as he’s willing to admit that Louis is right about nearly everything. 

But Harry isn’t walking away from anything at the moment. Rather, he takes a step toward Liam, who is suddenly acutely aware that he still hasn’t had the chance to shower. His skin is prickling all over. He thinks maybe it’s the air conditioning hitting his skin, cooling the sweat too quickly. His vest is clinging to his chest in odd places. He desperately wants to take it off, but Harry is still looking at him, and the locker room is deafeningly quiet.

“I should shower,” Liam says, rather uselessly into the silence.

“Liam,” Harry begins, ignoring his statement. His eyes are roving over Liam’s person, making him feel both jumpy and completely immobile at the same time. “You change your hair so often. Do you know how many different hair cuts you’ve had since we’ve been in the band?”

“ _What_?”

“I’ve really only had one, but you change almost constantly.”

Liam barks out a laugh. He couldn’t be more lost in this conversation if he tried. “Well, it is your name,” he attempts to joke. “Hair Style.” Harry doesn’t laugh. Why is it that Harry is never joking with him?

“We were similar, once, you and I. You let your curls grow out for a bit. We were the same.”

Liam eyes him. Harry’s clearly getting at something, but he still can’t see what it is. “I’m not sure that we were, Haz.” He uses the nickname, and it feels soft in his mouth.

The use of the name seems to spur something in Harry because he steps all the way into Liam’s space now, and reaches out a hand to pet at Liam’s hair. Liam inclines his head into the touch, a little bit surprised by how nice it feels. Harry’s hand is so big, and he’s moving thoughtfully, as though considering something. “I don’t know you, Liam,” he says, eventually. “I thought we were the same, for a moment. But you change so often. I can’t keep up.”

“What are you on about?” Liam really looks into Harry’s face then. He truly does look confused, his eyes cloudy, a line forming between his drawn eyebrows. Liam feels relief at being able to read an emotion for once. It makes him laugh, light and soft this time. “I’m just Liam. I’ve always been just Liam. From Wolverhampton. That’s all.”

“No,” Harry insists, curling his hand around the back of Liam’s head and drawing him in closer. “You were one person when we met. And now you’re someone else. I don’t mean that it’s a bad thing.” Harry frowns. “I just mean that… I got lost somewhere. In the transition.”

Harry brings his other hand up to Liam’s collarbone, and then strokes down his chest, as though he’ll unearth Liam this way. Maybe he’s right because Liam sways into it, and they nearly end up knocking foreheads. 

“Harry,” Liam manages to get out, and his voice is a lot more hoarse than it had been a few minutes ago. “I’m right _here_. And so are you.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, as though he’s only just realized this fact. He lets his hand fall from Liam’s chest, and Liam feels oddly unanchored without it. Harry slides his other hand down from Liam’s hair to get a good grip around his neck, keeping him in place, but Liam still feels like he might fall over. Before he can think about what he’s doing, he swings one arm around Harry’s neck, like they’re slow dancing.

Harry is looking down at the sliver of space in between them. No, Liam realizes a beat too late, he’s looking down at Liam’s body. He makes a movement with his free hand, and Liam is so used to violence, that he’s not at all prepared for the gentleness of Harry cupping his dick through his basketball shorts. A noise erupts from Liam’s throat, as though Harry had reached into Liam’s mouth and pulled the sound out himself. It’s a pleased, but desperately needy moan that saps all of Liam’s energy, and he falls all the way forward into Harry.

Harry palms at Liam’s dick, and it’s still gentle, not urgent. And yet, Liam can feel himself becoming hard almost embarrassingly quickly. It’s just _nice_ to have someone else’s hand there, doing all the work. He can’t pinpoint exactly the last time he and Dani had slept together—they’d both been drunk, that much is certain—and it’s been at least several weeks by now. Liam pushes his head into Harry’s shoulder and closes his eyes against a flood of memories, a relationship that had ended with a pair of dark eyes set against him. He breathes in the familiar scent of Harry’s cologne, trying to focus on the present. The cologne is woody, as usual, but Liam has a moment realization that the prickling sharp quality to it is something _green_.

Harry uses his hand on Liam’s neck to pull him up a little. He breathes on Liam’s neck, almost kissing, but not quite. “I wanna know you,” he says into the skin near Liam’s ear.

“I’m right here,” Liam repeats, but it comes out as more of a moan than anything else.

Harry drags his hand across Liam’s neck, and rests his index finger on Liam’s birthmark. Liam can tell it’s his birthmark because the skin is slightly raised. His breath stutters in his throat, as he takes in the specific pressure of Harry’s calloused finger on his neck, matched with his continuous palming of Liam’s cock.

It’s actually the touching of the birthmark that does it, the specificness of the action, the pressure of it. Liam has a moment of clarity where he remembers the way Harry looks at him like he’s a science experiment. 

“Is this what it was about?” He manages to gasp out. “The whole time?”

“What?” Harry asks, in a tone sounding like he hasn’t quite registered that Liam is actually speaking.

Liam leans closer to Harry’s ear. “Every time you went after me, you know,” he huffs out a crazed laugh against Harry’s skin because there isn’t an elegant way to put it. “All the ballgrabbing and dickslapping. Is _this_ what it meant?”

Harry’s eyes go wide then. He takes a small step backward and actually looks down at his hand where it’s resting—not moving anymore—on Liam’s crotch. “I’m not sure.” He pronounces the three words agonizingly slowly.

Liam blinks. Now that Harry has moved back slightly, he’s feeling too cold all over again, his skin not feeling quite right on his body. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it that in-depth.” Harry tilts his head. He looks zoned-out, staring at a point on the wall beyond Liam, and it’s infuriating. 

“You’re not sure? You hadn’t thought about it?” Liam hears that familiar rush in his ears that means he’s yelling without meaning to. “Harry, you were about to shove your hand down my shorts! You can’t just go doing things like that without giving it some thought. Holy shit!” Liam smacks himself on the forehead as he realizes. “And the thing is, I would’ve let you do it.”

That snaps Harry out of whatever daze he had been in. He looks Liam directly in the eye as he responds. “Because that would’ve been the real problem, wouldn’t it? You might’ve stopped thinking so much for one bloody second and just let something happen to you! What a fucking tragedy.”

Harry doesn’t specify what the tragedy is, but Liam is pretty sure he means it’s Liam himself.

“We’re nothing alike, you and I,” Liam spits out. “We never were.” 

Liam shoulders past Harry, stomping toward the door. He hears Harry yell “Too fucking right!” at him. It’s kind of a stupid comeback, it doesn’t really hit Liam, but rolls down his back to settle in his gut along with every other strange thing Harry has said to him. But there was an undercurrent to Harry’s voice that Liam has never heard before. He realizes that he’s never seen Harry that genuinely angry.

 

Once out in the corridor Liam curses himself for being the dumbest person alive because he _still_ hasn’t taken a shower. Lou will need to take care of his hair and makeup soon, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back in that locker room. Liam paces around the arena, through all sorts of hallways and places he isn’t sure he’s technically allowed to be. He stumbles across Louis, Zayn, and Niall on their way in from their skateboarding ramp adventure. The three of them stop dead in their tracks at the sight of him, as though he’s something that needs to be looked at with caution. 

It’s a small miracle that they’re all together, it means he’ll only have to say this once. “I’m not okay,” he says, holding up a hand to stop any of them from speaking. “Things… aren’t okay. But I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.” Louis and Niall look doubtful, but he sees Zayn pulling at the backs of both of their t-shirts, signalling for them to back down. “Please try to understand,” he pleads, even though he doesn’t understand himself. He starts to walk away, but then turns around. “Harry might want to talk though,” he says, his voice breaking. “Someone should check on Harry.”

If the show that night isn’t a complete disaster, it’s through sheer force of will. Louis and Niall run themselves ragged trying to keep up the energy. Zayn gives Liam a determined look like he knows this isn’t rehearsal, he wouldn’t dream of missing his cues now, and belts his heart out even more than usual, if that’s possible.

Liam avoids Harry until he can’t, until Harry is walking toward him with an inescapable intensity in his eyes. It’s during the twitter question segment, and the five of them are stranded on the small B stage. There’s absolutely nowhere for Liam to hide. 

Harry holds his microphone behind his back as he leans in. He presses his cheek to Liam’s, and it’s too much, their skin feeling fever-hot pressed together, but Liam doesn’t flinch away. He stands still, letting Harry burn him up. Harry speaks loudly enough that the others might hear if they were paying attention, but Zayn is insisting on some sort of dance competition between Louis and Niall to distract the fans.

“I’ve thought about it, Liam, and do you know what? Do you know what the really hilarious thing is?” Harry’s tone is dark, his voice shaking. That earlier undercurrent of anger has boiled to the surface, and there’s no doubt that what he’s about to say isn’t hilarious in the slightest. Of course not, he doesn’t joke with Liam. “You’ve done the same thing to me, you see. Talk about a dickslapping fixation, you could win a medal.” He pulls back now, flashing a deadly smirk that has girls in nearby rows going wild when they catch sight of it. “And I just have to wonder, what did _you_ mean by it?”

+

The European leg of the tour ends with a crash.

It’s remarkably easy to avoid Harry during their downtime as he’s always at a hotel pool with Lou, Tom and baby Lux. While performing, the agreement seems to be that Louis will take charge of Liam, Niall will take charge of Harry, and Zayn will split his time between the two. Liam is grateful that Louis is still all over him in just the same way that he normally would be, not too overawed by Liam’s obvious anger to get up in his space. Liam reciprocates, draping his arms around Louis’ shoulders and even his waist, needing an anchor. 

Avoiding Harry on stage isn’t necessarily as easy, but they’re both professionals, at least that’s what Liam thinks the look in Harry’s eye is saying _just get through this_. Liam has moments where he thinks that maybe it will be alright, being in the band with Harry like this. The two of them were never absolute best friends anyway, and maybe the fans and the media won’t pick up on the tension between them. Dani is gradually fading from Liam’s mind—he can’t remember the exact smell of her perfume anymore. Still, her last words to him linger. 

But there are other moments—like when he tips up into his falsetto and goes lightheaded, losing a modicum of control—when he knows it’s useless. Because sometimes, even if only a few times now, Harry has smiled at him, and Liam felt it like a satisfying click in his whole body. It might be rare for Liam and Harry to come together at all, but, when they do, it’s a good fit.

When the group of them step off the moving platform onto the B stage, Harry is constantly hanging over the edge, waving, giving out high fives, and smiles. So many smiles. Liam watches him toss those smiles out like they’re nothing, but Liam knows better. He knows how much just one smile is worth, and it’s disgustingly unfair and, quite frankly, misleading of Harry to stand there acting like that isn’t the case.

There’s only about an hour of showtime left, and then they’ll be on break for two weeks. Liam thinks he ought to be feeling relief about taking a break from all this tension, but the prospect of a break is only making him feel more drawn to Harry than ever, like he needs to memorize Harry’s movements. Liam himself is moving before he realizes that he’s doing it. He has no strategy, and nothing in particular to say. He’s running on pure instinct, pure stupidity, pure anger over the fact that Harry is so difficult for him whereas he seems to be delightfully easy for everyone else.

Harry doesn’t see Liam coming so it’s kind of a cheap shot, but Liam has one of his rare moments of not caring. He barrels into Harry and wraps an arm around his waist. For a minute they’re just swinging around together like some kind of awkward dance routine. Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound of protest, just lets Liam grab him. This infuriates Liam even more. He throws Harry to the ground, and, because they’re connected, he lands in a heap on top of Harry. Liam had used a lot more force than he realized he was capable of doing. He hadn’t tried to be careful like he would with Niall or Louis. He can actually feel the impact knocking the wind out of Harry’s chest, can see his eyes slipping shut out of surprise, his body left completely immobile beneath Liam. 

Liam has one second of panic during which he legitimately thinks to himself _oh my god, I’ve killed Harry Styles_ before he sees the familiar rise and fall return to Harry’s chest. Harry blinks his eyes open almost lazily, like he’s just waking up from a nap. Louis would be fighting Liam tooth and nail over this, trying to rip his head off. But Harry just stares up at him, placid and unperturbed. This has Liam physically shaking, and he’s unsteady as he props himself up on his arms above Harry. 

“What’s wrong?” Liam growls into Harry’s face, even though nothing seems to be wrong with Harry. That’s the problem. “Wasn’t that enough for you?” Harry shakes his head, and Liam makes a snarling noise at him.

“No, Liam,” Harry looks up at him, and his tone is earnest. “No, I don’t think that’s the right question. I think you want to be asking something else.”

Liam’s arms give out from under him and his whole weight falls on Harry’s chest. Harry’s breathing doesn’t stutter under his weight, and his heartbeat is steady. Liam isn’t sure he has the physical strength to pull himself back up, but it’s alright because he feels an arm wrapping around his waist, peeling him off of Harry. It must be Louis because he sees Zayn and Niall crouching down on either side of Harry.

“God, you weigh a lot,” Louis groans in his ear. “Come on, you lazy sod, give us some help.” He realizes that Louis is trying to get him to stand up. His body feels limp and emptied out, and he isn’t sure he can move of his volition. He watches Harry, who looks like as much of a ragdoll, slouched between Niall and Zayn, as Liam feels.

“Ouch! Fuck, I hate you!” Liam yelps, as he feels Louis pinching and digging his nails into his hips. That has him springing off the ground and standing up again.

Then Louis is at his back, physically pushing him back toward the platform. He fastens Liam’s safety belt before doing his own. He looks over to check on Harry, who is adjusting his mic stand very intently, and then turns back to Liam. 

“Stay with us, Payner,” he intones. It’s both cautionary and pleading.

It was a statement; Louis isn’t really looking for answer, Liam knows, and he’s grateful for it. He doesn’t know how to explain to Louis that it’s a glance that isn’t open to him, and a smile not meant for him, that drive him to sheer recklessness. 

+

There are days when America seems like nothing but open highway punctuated by fast food restaurants. They perform in states like Kentucky and Georgia, where people drink something called sweet tea that isn’t anything like the tea Liam is familiar with.

It’s been over a month since Dani, and there have been a few girls by now: two back in London over break, and one in America. Liam made sure that they all had clear blue eyes, eyes that were bright and laughing and eager, eyes that couldn’t be set against him in judgement. However, he had allowed Zayn and Louis to talk him into hitting up a bar in the middle of nowhere Tennessee last night. They pushed him toward a woman who had been eyeing him up. When she looked at Liam with a smile, he noticed that she had green eyes, and something in his stomach trembled and flipped over. He bolted out the door, and ended up puking in a side alley.

“I’m not buying you any more alcohol in this country, you underage embarrassment,” Louis had scolded softly while running his hand through Liam’s hair. “Can’t even hold your tequila.”

“Tequila was shit,” Liam croaked out. “The bartender said to try the home-grown bourbon. Shockingly, you didn’t listen.”

Zayn laughed as Louis pouted, and then the two of them rubbed Liam’s back while they waited together for the car to take them back to the hotel.

On the road the next day Liam still feels a bit tequila wobbly, but Niall is up front chatting with the driver, and Louis and Zayn are passed out in their bunks, so his headache at least has a fighting chance of being cured. He wanders toward the lounge, thinking he can put on a quiet film and zone out for a couple hours.

Liam is looking at the ground, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, and trying not to fall over as the tour bus trundles on. So, he’s aware of Harry’s presence—that woodsy cologne—before he sees him. When Liam looks up, he’s face-to-face with Harry, who is standing in the doorway to the lounge.

The two of them have mostly managed to stay in their own separate spheres for this first week of the North American tour. They’d said an awkward hello to each other at the airport, then Harry has disappeared behind his sunglasses and hat, while Liam pulled his hoodie down over his eyes, and the other three had realized that this weird tension hadn’t dissolved, and that it might not for a long time. 

The group is still great on stage, and Liam knows it’s due to the exhausting work put in by Zayn and Louis and Niall. One night Niall had swept Harry into a ballroom dance routine. They lasted for a good couple of minutes before inevitably tumbling over in a heap, and even Liam had to grudgingly admit it was fairly adorable. There was another night where Zayn, always so sweetly earnest, must have seen Liam clenching his jaw more than usual, and had tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a rose that had been thrown on stage. Liam thought he might burst into tears on the spot, but Zayn shook his head and flicked him a smile like _not now, later_.

Liam hadn’t cried later. He hasn’t cried at all. Liam has broken-up with his girlfriend, done _something_ with Harry, consumed a lot of alcohol, thrown some of it back up, fucked a few girls, and not cried once. 

Liam swings closer into the doorway of the lounge and, thus, closer into Harry’s space. Harry is looking back at him with an odd almost-smile. Liam feels his stomach fluttering, and he isn’t sure it’s completely hangover related. 

“Hey,” Harry says.

“Er—hi,” Liam replies.

“Sorry,” Harry offers.

“No, it’s alright, I was just going to try and watch a film for a bit. Just something to pass the time. It’s not a big deal if you’re already hanging out in here.”

“Oh,” Harry raises his eyebrows. “What I meant was, I’m sorry for…” Harry gives a shrug, “you know.”

Liam does know. “Me too. I’m sorry too. I don’t quite know what happened,” Liam gives a laugh because he was so incredibly angry, and it was so stupid. “Shit, I straight out tackled you that one night, didn’t I?”

“You tackle everyone on stage.”

“Yeah, but I feel a bit bad. You didn’t know that I was, like, gunning for you.”

Harry places his hands on either side of the doorway. “Oh, is that what you were doing?” He lets inertia from the bus swing him forward into Liam, as he continues. “ _Gunning_ for me?”

Liam and Harry are closer to the same height than anyone else in the band—their eyes are on a level with each other, their shoulders about the same width. Liam has been aware of this for awhile, ever since Harry had started growing, but he absorbs it now in a visceral way, as Harry leans into him. He doesn’t move away, in fact, he leans in himself until there are just centimeters between their faces, their lips having their own conversation, whispering to each other of closeness. 

“Yeah,” Liam affirms. “I was gunning for you.”

He doesn’t process at all what happens next. When it’s over, he supposes the bus must have lurched, sending himself and Harry flying into each other. He knows it must have been the bus because he distantly hears both Niall and Louis swearing. He also knows this because he and Harry are sprawled together on the carpeted floor just inside the doorway to the lounge. The impact is harder than when Liam had tackled Harry on stage, but that may have something to do with the fact that Liam is the one lying on his back with Harry on top of him this time. Liam’s eyes are closed, and he breathes in, feeling the hum of the engine beneath him. The vibration rattles him. In a good way. He feels like he’s just been shaken awake after a restful sleep. He opens his eyes to see Harry, who is looking down at him with that familiar watchful expression, but there’s something else to it, a kind of heat, like Harry feels the same engine roar in his bones.

“I was angry with you,” Liam says to him. “I’m not quite sure why.”

Harry gives a laugh, and sits up so that he’s straddling Liam. “I was angry with you too. Not many people make me genuinely angry, Liam. You’re one of the few.” He doesn’t specify why either. 

The two of them stare at each other. Liam realizes that he’s listening, trying to gauge what everyone else is up to. Niall’s voice is discernible, but he’s still far away. No one else seems eager to come near the lounge at the moment, and Liam feels himself exhale. He blinks, slow and careful, up at Harry. The corner of Harry’s mouth pulls into a smirk as he rolls his hips forward, and it’s only now that Liam consciously understands what he had been listening for: a sound, a warning, an excuse not to do this. 

The two of them are doing it though, whatever it might be. No one had appeared to stop them, and they can’t seem to stop themselves. Liam is grabbing at Harry’s hips now, while canting his own up at the same time. He fits his hands around Harry, sliding one around to grip his arse, trying to set a rhythm as Harry grinds down onto him. Liam is only wearing thin basketball shorts, and it’s obvious he’s already getting hard. Harry is wearing skinny jeans because his wardrobe doesn’t seem to consist of anything else. The scratchy denim is a contrast to the soft fabric of Liam’s more lived-in clothing. The friction feels _amazing_ to him, but he wonders how Harry is faring with his trousers so tight, even around his hips. 

Harry falls forward, and catches himself with one hand on the floor right next to Liam’s head. His necklace dangles down between them, and Liam watches as a pink flush creeps across his cheeks. Their mouths are impossibly close again, and Liam imagines kissing Harry, leaning up to bite at his full bottom lip, feeling Harry kiss back. But Harry’s eyes are still darkly unreadable, and Liam can’t quite manage the move. He gasps up into Harry’s face instead, causing Harry’s grinding to stutter. He rocks back and forth on top of Liam for a second as though surprised, then swivels his hips down again, this time moving counter-clockwise. 

Liam feels that same deep-seated moan that only Harry can elicit being pulled from his throat, and it’s terrifying because he can’t stop it. Harry sees the fear in his eye, and claps his free hand over Liam’s mouth before the noise is too obvious. Liam licks at Harry’s palm in response, so that Harry knows he was right, that he had known what Liam wanted. This causes Harry to flash the filthiest grin Liam’s ever seen, and he’s struck with the white-hot urge to wipe that grin away. He needs to see Harry’s face transform—first out of shock, and then out of pleasure—and to know that it’s his doing. 

He moves an arm up to cradle Harry’s back, and then rolls them over. Harry’s hand slides off of Liam’s mouth, his arms cross above his head, and Liam has him: shocked, and utterly laid out beneath him. Neither of them move for a moment. Liam can feel how hard Harry is in his jeans. It must be torturously uncomfortable, but he hasn’t made a move to undo his trousers.

Harry reaches up to grab at Liam’s t-shirt and pull him down. “Come _on_ , Liam,” he urges. He sounds exhilarated, but also afraid. They’re essentially out in the open, they could be caught at any moment. 

Then it’s desperate. Liam shifts his hips until he finds the perfect angle, slotting their cocks together. He works his hips harder against Harry, willing himself to forget that they’re on the floor of their tour bus, willing to forget everything except for Harry beneath him. 

A little whine escapes Harry’s throat, and Liam has the bizarre urge to comfort him, to tell him it’s okay. He touches a hand to Harry’s face, runs his knuckles along his cheek. Harry whines again at the contact, and Liam has a revelation about the type of thing he might be asking for. He sticks two fingers in Harry’s mouth, and it’s hot, his teeth are sharp, but he closes his lips around Liam’s fingers almost gratefully. Harry sucks hard as he breathes in and out through his nose, and Liam swears under his breath. He has to look away from Harry’s face, the pleasure he’d wanted to see written too plainly. 

Liam feels his body beginning to tense up, a fuse being lit inside him, burning outward from the pit of his stomach in a series of sparks. Liam buries his face in Harry’s shoulder as he comes. Harry reaches both arms around Liam’s back, and claws up and down with his blunt fingernails as his body stutters, and he comes, too. Then his hands relax, and he’s just holding Liam. They lie there for a moment—two red-faced, sweaty, sticky messes—just breathing into each other. Liam likes lying on top of Harry with his eyes closed. He doesn’t have to decipher anything this way; he can just absorb the rhythms of his heartbeat, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The bus hits some kind of pothole in the road, and it jolts Liam into alertness. He rolls off Harry and onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. He takes in Harry, who turns to look at him with a languid expression. His hair is falling across his forehead in a sweaty tangle, and Liam can’t quite see his eyes. Liam reaches over and brushes the hair out of his face, patting it back into place on his head. The action feels somehow more intimate than anything they’ve just done together. Harry smiles up at him, small and almost shy, as though they’re just meeting for the first time.

They both hear it, the echo of loud footsteps, and _shit_. They’re both wearing black, and Liam hopes that the wetness—quickly drying into a stain—isn’t too obvious, at least not at first glance. Harry scrambles to his feet and messes around with his hair, while Liam sits back on his heels and tries to gauge how low he can pull his t-shirt down.

“Oh!” comes the startled sound from the doorway. Liam turns his head to see Niall paused on the threshold. “Er—what are you doing on the floor?” 

“I fell,” Liam says, dumbly.

“I pushed him,” Harry adds.

“I kind of pushed you,” Liam says, looking up. Harry’s still wearing that shy smile.

“We pushed each other.”

As a general rule Niall doesn’t hesitate to speak his mind, but, as he looks between Harry and Liam now, his demeanor is almost terrifyingly careful. It makes Liam want to jump out of his own skin.

“So,” Niall begins, his eyes narrowing. “You’re alright here, then? Both of you?”

“Yes,” Liam affirms, as emphatically as he can. He knows it will take a lot more than one word, and that the two of them probably deserve it, but he’ll do anything to wipe that look off of Niall’s face. It’s like he can see the link that connects Liam and Harry, can see that’s it’s made of delicately blown glass, and that it could fall to pieces at any second.

“Okay, anyway,” Niall continues in his uncharacteristic tone of voice. “We’re stopping for lunch in a few minutes. So, if you want any food, stop rolling around on this disgusting floor and make yourselves presentable.”

Liam and Harry wait until Niall has taken a few steps back down the aisle of the bus to laugh. It’s more silent than noise, but they look at each other, and Liam feels tears stinging at his eyes, as he glances down at his very unpresentable shorts.

“You heard the man,” Harry says, when he’s recovered enough to speak. “Make yourself presentable.”

Harry steps around him then and heads off, presumably to rustle up a change of trousers. Liam remains sitting on the floor for a moment longer, just breathing in and out. As he exhales, he feels like he’s releasing Dani’s final words to him out into the atmosphere. That specific worry about not being able to fit alongside someone is no longer an intrinsic part of him. 

+

It isn’t that Liam is brooding, except that maybe he is a little bit. Eleanor is visiting Louis, and they’re so obviously happy together, it’s rather awful to witness up close. They’ve almost reached the hotel for the night, and Louis is about ready to fling himself out the window of the tour bus in anticipation of being alone in a hotel room with Eleanor. This makes Liam hyper-aware of the fact that he’ll be alone in his hotel room with a packet of crisps and various tiny bottles of alcohol from the minibar for company. 

There haven’t been any more girls for Liam in recent weeks, or any boys, for that matter. There hasn’t been anyone since he and Harry had been together. It had settled a surface tension between them, and they’ve reached a kind of détente. Liam finds that when he considers other people now, a model in a magazine, a pretty girl on the street, he can’t work up any interest. The problem is that the most exciting thing he’s seen lately, the image he can’t get out of his mind, is a pair of smirking red lips, flushed cheeks, and dark green eyes, focused solely on him.

When the bus comes to a stop Liam hops out of his bunk, and casts around for a shirt to throw on along with his sweats. (the fans might appreciate shirtlessness, but they’ve been told that hotel managers do not.) The nearest thing he can find is a grey zip-up hoodie. It may belong to him, or it may not; Liam doesn’t much care. He slips it on as he steps off the bus, and doesn’t think more about it.

Later that evening Niall barges into Liam’s room shouting about room service. They order up cheeseburgers and french fries, as the American room service menus refer to chips. Niall repeats it over and over like a mantra: “Burgers and fries! Burgers and fries!” He then tosses a few of the fries at Liam’s head until he gets a laugh.

“Do you know where Harry is?” Liam ventures to ask, finally.

“Zayn’s with him,” Niall answers, looking Liam in the eye. “Why, did you want him?”

Liam’s whole body stutters at the question even though Niall didn’t mean it that way. At least, he hopes Niall didn’t mean it that way. Niall is staring at him in that unnervingly careful way again, and it almost makes Liam wish that he were breakable so that he could shatter and get it over with. It seems to be what Niall is expecting. “So, you two are still babysitting us, then?” he replies, answering a question with a question.

Niall gives a shrug and a wink. “It’s what they pay me the big bucks for, didn’t ya know?”

When the food is long gone, Niall pulls Liam into a hug, and it’s just as all-enveloping as that first hug. Liam clings on, gripping into Niall’s shoulder blade at the memory of a time when he didn’t know how to be close to people in this way. 

He turns up the air conditioning as high as it will go—it’s _hot_ out west—a heat like dust that settles in-between his joints, making him feel itchy. Liam sleeps in his boxers and that grey hoodie, zipped all the way up, in the hopes that it will help protect his throat and his voice from the blasting cold air. He drifts off to sleep with the television still on, listening to Jimmy Fallon crack jokes, making cultural references Liam only half understands, things like Hamptons vacations and baseball season.

That night Liam dreams of summertime spent in a quiet, untouched forest. It’s densely packed with trees that have grown there for hundreds of years, serene now in their age, bark flaking off the trunks. Despite the trees, the overwhelming sensation is that of greenness. The leaves on the trees are bright, practically glowing green in the sunlight, and plants of every variety sprout up out of the earth. Liam breathes deeply, and he can taste the color green. It’s soothing, refreshing, and intoxicating all at once. It’s the taste of life, the taste of being alive. 

Liam blinks awake the next morning still half-convinced that he’s peacefully stretched out on his back on a forest floor. He closes his eyes, and it’s all so tangible: he feels a steady rise and fall, as though the earth is alive, and he gazes up at the sun-dappled canopy of tree leaves. Then the air conditioner hums, the television flickers, and he’s plunged back into the stark reality of his hotel room. He’s unquestionably alone here. In the dream he had been alone, and yet not alone, too.

Liam yawns and buries his face deeper into the grey hoodie, breathing it in. He knows now to whom it really belongs. 

\+ 

Liam is relieved to remember that he’ll have Louis back to himself once Eleanor returns to England. But, when Louis marches over to Liam’s bunk with a stern expression and his hands on his hips, Liam realizes that maybe this isn’t a good thing.

“Come on, Sulk Monster,” Louis pokes at him. “Sit up, we’re having a chat.”

“I’m not a Sulk Monster.”

“A true Sulk Monster would deny it, wouldn’t they? Now,” Louis remains standing and stares at him, all sharp edges, like he’s ready to cut Liam down to size. Sometimes Louis is a pain in the arse. “I know you said that you didn’t want to talk about it, but it’s been all summer by now. You still haven’t said a word about anything you’re really thinking. I wouldn’t mind, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re so obviously brooding over everything like you’re fucking Edgar Allan Poe. And Zayn says you haven’t even spoken to him. I mean, that’s the entire point of Zayn! He listens when you’re having a hard time of it.” Louis pauses for breath, and Liam looks down at his own hands. Louis’s words are ringing in his ears like a trumpet announcing Liam’s many failures to communicate and his general uselessness. “And the really odd thing is,” Louis continues in a quieter tone. “Harry hasn’t said anything either, not to me, not to Niall, not to Zayn. It’s uncharacteristic, is what it is. Like you’ve hypnotized him into being just as stubborn as you are.”

Liam gives a harsh laugh. “Nice try, Tommo,” he groans, rubbing at his eyes. “But you’ve got it wrong. I don’t have any power over Harry, let alone hypnotizing him.”

“Have I got it wrong though? Niall says he caught you two rolling around on the floor again like lunatics the other week.” Liam tries to keep his face neutral as Louis’ eyes narrow in suspicion. “You’ll hurt yourselves.” Louis says after a moment.

“Are you going to believe everything Niall says?” Liam asks, feeling bratty because Niall’s careful look had meant that he _knows_ , has known this whole time, and Liam has no more defenses left.

“I believe Niall when he’s right,” Louis snaps. “And I know he is because you and Harry have been acting differently ever since. You’re not so aggressively upset with each other, which is a good thing, I suppose.” Louis reaches out as though to touch Liam’s face, but stops halfway like he’s hit some invisible barricade. He lets his hand fall to his side. Liam feels the phantom touch as a loss, misses the real thing. “Look, none of us care what exactly happened between you. We just want you both to be okay. It’s been all summer, Payner. And we’re not sure— _I’m_ not sure—that you’re okay.”

Liam feels like he might be ill. He’s been avoiding Zayn, he hasn’t told Louis the truth, and he’s just attempted to throw Niall under the bus. He’ll have to tell Louis something now. He’ll have to give him a scrap of the truth, or else he might truly throw up right here in his own bunk. “I was thinking about Danielle,” Liam confesses. 

Louis instantly deflates at the name. “Oh, Liam,” he whispers.

“When Harry and I had that fight, you know, in Europe. I was thinking about Danielle, and then about Harry. Like they were sort of linked in my mind. I’m not sure they are anymore though. I’m not so sure they’re the same.” 

Louis looks at him, eyes glinting like a knife’s edge, and Liam knows that he’s just given away more than he had meant to, perhaps more than he even realizes himself. Louis pushes aside whatever had stopped him from touching Liam before, and puts both his hands around Liam’s head, bringing their foreheads together. “Well,” he whispers. “You know what you’ve got to do now, don’t you? Forget Zayn, and Niall, and myself. We’re grand. You need to talk to Harry.”

Liam looks back at Louis with pleading eyes. Doesn’t Louis see? That’s been the problem all along. Liam doesn’t know how to talk to Harry. Louis shakes his head like he _does_ see, but it isn’t up to him. He ruffles Liam’s hair, and Liam smacks at his hand until he stops. They end up holding hands for a moment.

Louis chuckles to himself as he goes to leave. He takes a couple of steps and then turns back to Liam. “You know what my favorite thing about you and Harry is? It’s that you’re both so terrifically stupid.” 

Liam wants to argue back, but doesn’t feel like he has much ground to stand on after his and Harry’s behavior this summer. Louis is right. Their entire relationship, honestly, has been mind-blowingly stupid. 

Louis really is a pain in the arse.

+

Liam wants to take Louis’ advice and talk to Harry, he really does. It’s both difficult, and not difficult because he finds himself wanting to be around Harry all the time now. He wants to be near him on the tour bus, and during interviews, and to sit next to him at breakfast. So, he does these things. Liam and Harry are usually awake before the others in the mornings, anyway. Liam sits down next to Harry in the hotel restaurant one morning, and, without any questions, Harry clears some room for him at the table. It becomes a thing. The two of them spend mornings together, sitting in sleepy silence, their hands brushing together as they pass the sugar bowl and plates of toast back and forth.

Liam wants to be near Harry on stage too, but he’s afraid of that. He’s afraid that with the music thumping more intently through his mind than his own thoughts, he’ll lose control again. He doesn’t want to pants Harry or tackle him to the ground. Louis had warned against one or both of them ending up hurt, and Liam suspects he didn’t mean physical injuries only.

But during one show, Liam spins around to find himself facing Harry. Neither of them turn away, they stay rooted to the spot. Harry tilts his head, and Liam watches like it’s slow-motion, as dimples form in Harry’s cheeks. Harry is smiling at him. Then the two of them break into a goofy dance, flailing their limbs around, mirroring each other. Liam throws his head back, laughing. This is surprisingly _nice_. Is this why people love Harry so much? Liam thinks that he loves Harry.

Then suddenly, Liam can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs to breathe. He clutches his chest, and falls rather ungracefully, first onto his knees, and then onto the stage. He had never let himself articulate that exact thought before and this is why: because he loves Harry even when he isn’t being nice. Because it’s too much. And because Harry is right there.

Harry is peering down at Liam, his eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern. A couple of fans are pointing at Liam. He realizes that people are starting to notice, but he still can’t seem to catch his breath and stand back up. Then Harry’s face lights up for a second, and he’s waving his arms around, and doing a bizarre half-somersault, half-fall thing, so that he ends up collapsed in a heap next to Liam. Liam can hear the fans in the front row, some of them laughing, some of them shouting to know if Harry is alright. Liam doesn’t need to see the look in Harry’s eye to know that he’s perfectly alright. Still, he locks eyes with Harry, unable to resist, like some kind of masochistic magnet. 

Harry’s gaze is as dark and serious as ever, but there’s something like a question there too, something that’s meant for Liam. He does that thing again where he tilts his head to the side, like he’s asking. But, Liam can’t be sure exactly what the question is, not right here while he’s trying to catch his breath amidst the chaos swirling around them. He simply nods, and Harry nods back.

Liam jumps to his feet. He needs to start off the next song, and he’s had enough of this. Maybe things between him and Harry aren’t ever meant to easy, _can’t_ be easy, for some reason. Liam had dreamed once of being at peace in a green forest, and, as he starts the next song, the beginning of a thought takes root in his mind. He wonders if there’s a difference between “easy” and being at peace, wonders if he doesn’t necessarily feel at ease when things are easy.

+

It’s after breakfast one morning. Liam finishes first and leaves the table. Sometimes Harry is finished first, sometimes Liam is. They sit together in silence, and then they leave each other in silence, it’s really not a big deal. But today, as Liam walks towards the lift, he hears familiar footsteps behind him. He decides to ignore them, and steps onto the arriving lift.

“Liam!” Harry jams his hand between the doors to stop them from closing. Harry is strong enough to hold the doors open, and even after a cup of tea, his voice is still extra-raspy from sleep. Liam gives a startled little jump, of which he isn’t particularly proud, as he takes all of this in.

“Er—sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he mumbles and presses the button for their floor. 

Harry gives a shrug, and he’s so _confusing_. They stand at opposite sides of the lift, just looking at each other. The mirrored walls—intended for some kind of interior design aesthetic—reflect infinite visions of the two of them. Liam thinks about how Harry passes off most things with a shrug, but surely _something_ must affect him. Liam still remembers lying on the floor beneath him as he confessed that Liam is one of the few people who can make him angry. It had been kind of thrilling to hear, and Liam doesn’t know exactly why, still can’t quite decipher it.

Harry’s mouth flicks up into a half-smile when the lift arrives at their floor, and he follows Liam out into the corridor. Liam realizes that this means Harry is coming to his room. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t protest, in fact, he tries not to feel anything at all as he holds the door open to let Harry walk in. But then he catches the scent of that cologne trailing after Harry, and he feels everything all at once.

Harry seems to be waiting for Liam, so he shuts the door, and sits down at the edge of the bed, gripping his hands together so that they don’t shake. Harry takes a seat at the edge of the bed too, but leaves a polite amount of space between them. Liam knows Harry is looking at him, and forces himself to return the gaze. Harry’s eyes aren’t dark, but burning bright with intensity. Liam thinks he’s seen that shade of green somewhere before.

“Liam, you said to me once that I shouldn’t do things without thinking them through first,” Harry begins. “And I thought to myself, _well, that’s obviously a load of crap_.”

“Great,” Liam claps his hands together. “I’m glad you think everything I say is crap. This has been a really lovely chat. Thanks, Harry.”

“I’m only just beginning, you idiot. And that isn’t what I said at all. Will you please listen?” Liam is so surprised by the sheer earnestness of Harry’s tone, that he does. He sits back and he listens. “I always operated under the assumption that I shouldn’t think things through too much because I’d get bogged down with all the details, you know, all the shit that doesn’t really matter. Then I realized that, actually, I was spending a lot of time thinking about one subject in particular. I realized that I couldn’t stop thinking about _you_ , that I’d been thinking about you for a long time. I realized that you matter to me.” Harry gives a little laugh, but it doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He’s never sounded more serious. “Do you remember when you asked me what it was about? The constant dickslapping?”

Liam buries his head in his hands. “How could I forget?”

“That’s what it was about. It was about the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I didn’t know what to do about it. And then I realized that you were right, that I should question myself and my actions, and it made me so angry because I _still_ didn’t know what to do. Then, when Niall almost caught us together, god, I liked it so much that I didn’t even care we were almost caught out.” Liam claps a hand over his mouth, not daring to tell Harry that Niall had definitely put two and two together. Not now, not while Harry is telling him all of this. “Being with you is good, Liam. It’s so good, and that’s scary as shit to me. Because, the really stupid thing is,”Harry’s voice goes very small, “I don’t know how to be close to you.” Even though they’re in a world-famous boyband, Liam has never felt more like an ordinary teenage boy, struggling to talk to someone. He thinks Harry feels the same. 

“It’s not your fault, Harry. I don’t really know how to be close to anyone.”

“That’s not true!” Harry insists. “I’ve seen it with the others. Louis pried you open, and you let him in. I don’t know how to do that. I think that’s what I was aiming for with you, but I just ended up shutting you out.”

“No! Well, yes, you did shut me out, but only because I didn’t understand. I’m a slow learner,” Liam admits. “If I know how be close to people at all, it’s only because being in the group has taught me that. But sometimes I don’t catch on. It’s why Dani and I broke up, I know that now. She was diplomatic about it, but it wasn’t the distance or the travelling. It was because I’m distant, as a person.” Harry scoots closer to Liam and takes his hand. “It’s alright,” Liam assures him. “It’s alright now.” But Harry gives his hand a squeeze. “Anyway, it’s the same for me,” Liam continues. “You asked me what I meant by all the touching and the pantsing, and it’s the same. I think about you all the time, Harry. An embarrassing amount. But, essentially, I’m clueless.”

Harry gives him an almost stern look. “Liam, you are not clueless, and you’re not a slow learner. I’m serious!” He cries, as Liam pulls a face. “You understand music better than anyone I know, and you make it seem effortless and instinctive, but I know how much work you put in. I know how much music means to you. When you get frustrated with Zayn for not clicking with a new song right away, it’s just because you can’t rush Zayn into doing anything, not waking up in the morning, and not learning something. You’re usually like that when it comes to other things, you like to take your time and think. But, when it comes to music, I think you would run off the edge of a cliff if it meant chasing a note, if it meant learning something new. And I think I would follow you.”

“Would you really?”

“Yes. Because it would mean I could learn something new about you.” 

Liam simply stares at Harry, stunned at what he’s hearing. He guesses that it must be mid-morning by now as the sun is shining in through the window behind Harry, framing his face. It makes his eyes gleam brighter, and Liam is sure that he’s seen that shade of green before. “Harry,” Liam shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say. I never would’ve guessed that you’d follow me anywhere.”

“How could you? I wasn’t showing you that I would. But I think I can now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I figured it out over breakfast just now. You were sitting so close, and I thought _oh, I could do something_.” Harry is still holding one of his hands and leaning in. “It’s so simple, I should’ve done it right away. I should’ve done it first thing.”

Liam can guess where this is going as Harry leans all the way into his space. That doesn’t make it any less thrilling when he finally presses his lips to Liam’s in a kiss. The pressure is light, a little bit hesitant, the two of them still working out how to be close like this.

Liam leans further in himself, pressing his fingertips into Harry’s cheekbone, and tasting tea and sugar on Harry’s lips. Harry matches him, pulling at Liam’s t-shirt to get him as close as possible, and sucking hard on his bottom lip. Liam gives a contented sigh into Harry’s mouth because, as it turns out, this is the most familiar thing. He’s seen that shade of green before, and he’d known what this kiss would be like, what it would taste like, before it had even happened. The kiss is as soothing as a cup of tea, as refreshing as a cool glass of water, and as intoxicating as any alcohol. It simmers and burns, as they push and pull at one another, then blooms into something brilliant as Harry brushes his tongue across Liam’s lips, and Liam opens his mouth to it.

In their excitement, they end up toppling off the bed and onto the floor. Liam laughs as he lands on top of Harry; this seems to be an old story with them. They’ve always been a disaster together. Harry grins up at him, maybe finally ready to joke with Liam.

“I lied to you,” Liam confesses.

Harry doesn’t seem surprised. “Oh yes?” He asks, casually.

“When I said that we weren’t anything alike. I was wrong.”

“Why don’t we make a deal to declare that day a draw for both of us. Not our finest hour.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to forget that day entirely. It was good in a way.” Liam pauses to think about how to articulate himself. “I like that it isn’t necessarily easy to be with you. I like that I have to work a little bit. I want there to be something new for me to learn about you every day.”

“Hmm,” Harry scrunches up his face. “I’m not sure about that, I might have to think on it before we act, you know.”

Liam smacks him in the shoulder. “Enough thinking for now. And just be glad I’m not kneeing you in the balls.”

“Maybe not kneeing me in the balls, but you could do other things with them,” Harry waggles his eyebrows, and Liam laughs. It feels strange to be casually laughing with Harry, but Liam supposes it’s one of his first new experiences with him. “Knew you liked it,” Harry continues after a moment. “Learning. A challenge. And it’s okay with me, as long as I get to follow you. Right off the edge of that cliff.”

Liam leans back in to kiss Harry in answer. Harry opens his mouth to Liam right away, like he’s been waiting for this kiss, waiting for that answer for a long time. Liam remembers Harry looking at him with dark eyes, and tilting his head as though in a question, and he realizes that Harry has been waiting for this answer for a long time. It turns out that kissing is a much more effective way of communicating than pantsing Harry in public. (although surely that experience will come in handy later.)

Harry wraps his arms around Liam’s back and rolls them over, away from the bed so that they’re in the middle of the floor, and Liam is completely spread out beneath him. Harry’s eyes turn dark green for a moment, but then he runs a finger around Liam’s mouth, gently tracing the line of his lips. “How’s that?” He asks, his voice quiet, some of that hesitancy making a return.

Liam finds that he doesn’t mind the dark look in Harry’s eyes anymore. The thing is, he can feel and smell Harry’s cologne all around him, it’s on his t-shirt now, on his own skin. It’s a part of him. He thinks it’s been a part of him for awhile now because even at the beginning of the summer, Harry had been able to anticipate what Liam wanted, had been able to draw out that deeply satisfied moan from somewhere within his body. And Liam had been able to do something similar for Harry. Being able to read someone’s desires, and having your own anticipated in return, is a type of intimacy that isn’t easy to come by. Liam thought he had found it once, and it’s what he wanted to ask for that time he tackled Harry, only he didn’t have the words.

Here it is again now with Harry, and instead of hitting him or shutting him out, Harry has just asked him a question. Liam hasn’t been able to fully read Harry yet, but the question offers him an open seam. It’s an invitation for him to slip through into the margins of a story, and, eventually, into the text itself.

“It’s perfect,” Liam answers, pulling Harry down for more of that fight, more of that intoxicating challenge, more of learning to laugh together, more of that everything kiss.


End file.
